


First Flight

by Castillon02



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Dom/sub Undertones, Humor, Improbable Cockpit Sex, M/M, Mile High Club
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-27
Updated: 2019-07-27
Packaged: 2020-07-21 05:34:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19996684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Castillon02/pseuds/Castillon02
Summary: Q's isn't afraid of flying; he's turned on by it.





	First Flight

**Author's Note:**

> For Reverse Tropes Day, midrashic's "mile high club" prompt, and the classic table prompt "I expect you to..."

The mission had gone quite well, Bond thought. Objectives achieved: virus implanted into the enemy’s mainframe, hard drives with incriminating data stolen, valuable MI6 asset protected while helping Bond to accomplish said objectives---yes, not a bad go of it at all. 

True, they’d had some guns pointed at them at one point, and the enemy base had ended up exploding, and he’d had no choice but to commandeer a luxury jet and fly it back to Britain with Q in the co-pilot’s seat, but things could definitely be worse. 

Even if Q _was_ turning red and giving him funny looks. Had he been injured? Remembered something important? Needed to use the bathroom? Gone into mobile phone withdrawal? 

“All right, Q?” Bond asked, glancing over. He flexed his fingers over the yoke in his hands, careful not to actually bump the steering mechanism one way or another.

“ _Hnnng_ ,” Q said, his hands clenching around the arms of his seat. 

Bond’s mouth went dry. He rather thought he knew what that sound meant. He turned his head to look at Q more carefully. 

Q was trying valiantly to maintain a normal expression on his flushed face, but the hungry wideness of his pupils gave him away, and so did the way his tongue flicked out and licked across his lips as he looked back at Bond. “I’m fine,” he croaked, but he could hardly take his eyes off of Bond’s hands on the yoke. 

Bond smiled. “Eve said you were afraid of flying,” he said. 

“I, ah---” For a moment Q’s eyes widened, probably with hope that Bond was going to believe the excuse. 

Bond smirked. “I think we both know better than that, don’t we?” He watched that hope flee from Q’s eyes and pitched the yoke down, dipped the plane into a little swoop that would have Q’s stomach leaping into his throat. 

“Oh, _fuck_.” Even as his hips jerked tellingly, Q covered his eyes with his hands and shrank into himself. “Bond! You fucking---” 

“It’s perfectly natural, Q,” Bond teased. “You see, when a man loves a plane very much…” 

Q lowered his hands to glare at him. 

“Sometimes,” Bond continued, “that man will be lucky enough to have a pilot who admires the man very much, and who wants to help the man and the plane get off together.” 

Q blinked at him. “You...what? You admire me?” 

“I spent the entire mission watching your arse, Q,” Bond told him. “Figuratively and literally.” 

“Oh, I---I see.” 

“But if you don’t want me to get you off while we’re alone in a cockpit---” 

“No!” Q said, leaning towards him now. “I mean, that is to say---yes. Yes, please. We should do that.” His eyes locked onto Bond’s face, hungry. 

Oh, yes. The mission was going _quite_ well. Bond smiled again. “There we go,” he said. “Things go so much better when you’re honest about what you want, you dirty thing.”

Q’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, his face burning, his eyes hot. 

“Do you like that?” Bond asked, curious. “Shall I call you a little technology slut? You’d probably let this plane fuck you if you could, all the different parts working together in unison, efficient and high-class---”

Q groaned and his hand moved unashamedly to his placket now, rubbing at the bulge there. “It’s not just---I mean.” His tongue darted out across his lips as he stared hopelessly at Bond. “You’re fucking piloting it, you arse, your hands all over it, and you’re so fucking good at it, I can’t---” He shuddered and arched into his own hand. 

“Oh, I _see_ ,” Bond purred. Not just the plane, but the competence. In particular, _Bond’s_ competence. He would need to revise his previous plan, which had ended with Q rubbing himself off against the luxurious white upholstery. 

A cockpit was admittedly not the most convenient place for a rendezvous, but Bond took in his cramped surroundings with the tactical mind of a man who had had sex in many, many improbable locations. Blowjobs were out---there was no room to kneel in between the rudder pedals and leaning over between the seats would be too awkward. There was no convenient wall or window to fuck Q against, either, because of the instrument panels in the front and the pedestal controls between them. Christ, this was even more awkward than car sex. 

However, all was not lost: the pilots’ chairs, plush and ergonomic, would certainly be strong enough to handle the weight of two men. 

Bond took one hand off the yoke and gripped Q’s so they were stroking over Q’s hard prick together. “You like that?” he asked, and stilled their hands, waited for Q’s frantic nod before continuing. “That’s good. Now the question is, do you want me to fuck you in my lap, or do you want me to rub you off right here?” Bond squeezed as if to illustrate and then went back to stroking, soft and teasing.

“Oh, god,” Q moaned. “I want—oh, fuck, I want you to fuck me, I’m never going to---I need your cock in me while you---” 

“While I fly the plane?” Bond asked, charmed by Q’s relative incoherence. He unzipped Q’s placket, dipped his fingers inside Q’s briefs and curled them around Q’s hardness. 

“Yes!” 

“You want to get yourself off?” Bond asked, low and sweet while he pulled Q off. “You want to show me how slutty you are while I can’t react? You want me trapped with my hands around the yoke, no choice but to keep flying while you wriggle around on my cock and make yourself come? Is that it?”

Q made a high noise in his throat and nodded. 

“We can do that,” Bond said, rubbing his thumb against a spot under Q’s cock that made Q’s breath come in hitches. “You know what I’d like? I’d like to watch you fuck yourself on your fingers and then I’d like to come in that tight arse of yours.” 

Hot precome spurted over Bond’s fingers. He made a show of removing his hand and licking them clean, grinning when Q made a noise of protest. “Trousers down, come on,” he said. He was hard now, too. It didn’t take much for that to happen after a mission, but having Q involved certainly helped. “There should be a first aid kit under your seat; probably some kind of lube in there.” 

Q rolled his eyes at him, but he fumbled under his seat and pulled the kit out anyway. “The luxuries of plane sex,” he commented, removing a little tub of petroleum jelly from the kit. 

Bond shrugged. “I have some gun oil in my holster, if you’d prefer---”

“No,” Q said quickly, unscrewing the lid and dipping his fingers in. “No, this is fine. I’d never be able to issue you cleaning supplies for your Walther again.” He glanced sidelong at Bond. 

Bond glanced back at him, picturing the usual equipment drop with the bonus of flushed cheeks and fumbling. 

They both grinned at each other. 

“Perhaps not the most professional image,” Bond agreed. “Of course, neither is…” He looked meaningfully at Q’s lube-covered fingers. 

“What happens on the plane, stays on the plane,” Q said firmly. It took a few hilarious wiggles in the cramped space of the co-pilot seat for him to get out of his checked trousers and dark briefs, but eventually the offending garments got flung over the back of his chair. 

“Top too,” Bond requested. 

Q quirked his eyebrows at him, but he obligingly stripped off his designer cardigan, tie, and collared shirt. He was fully naked when he shoved up against the side of the cockpit, shivering at the contact with the naked glass at his back. Then, even more obligingly, he opened his legs and tilted his arse up so Bond could see.

Bond had imagined Q like this, of course, the gangle of him outspread on Bond’s sheets, that cheeky red mouth stopped up with cock, those talented hands fondling Bond instead of playing with all of that machinery. The Q in reality was perhaps less ethereal than the fantasy, but he looked all the better for the white-knuckled grip he had around one thigh, the mole on one curve of his arse, the starboard tilt of his ruddy cock, the playful glint in his eyes as he circled his wet fingers around his hole and dipped one in and out. 

“Yes?” Q asked, sly, hovering his finger around his entrance, waiting to go deeper. 

“Oh, yes,” Bond breathed, heat surging through him. He flicked the autopilot switch and hurried to get his cock out. “Fuck yourself like you want it, you greedy little bastard.” 

“The greedy bastard---who’s going---to fuck you---in a minute,” Q said, panting as he rolled his finger in and out of himself with determined little jerks of his wrist. 

“Who’s fucking who again?” Bond asked, palming himself, heat rushing through his cock and balls and up the base of his spine. 

“You’re always fucking me, Bond,” Q said, shoving a second finger inside himself. “Fucking. Always. But now we’ve finished the mission, and we’re in a fucking Gulfstream G650 that’s zooming us through the air at nearly the speed of sound, and it’s my bloody turn to do the fucking!” He fucked his fingers in and out and gave Bond a hot stare that shot right through Bond’s cock. 

“By all means, fuck away,” Bond said wryly, a little breathless, and gestured politely at his erect cock. 

(...There was a lot to unpack in Q’s little rant, and probably Bond would want to do a wee bit of resentment repair with his quartermaster once they were back on the ground. In the air, however, Bond was reminded that in addition to imagining Q in his sheets, he had also had some fantasies that involved Q taking him over his desk in Q Branch and telling him what a naughty boy he was for not returning his equipment. Dear God, but Q looked good when he was agitated.)

“Just for that,” Q said, as if he could read Bond’s mind, “you can wait a little longer.” He slipped a third finger alongside the first two, stretching himself in a way that made his entire body arch in a sinuous curve, his head thrown back so his neck begged for a bite, his hips pumping eagerly. 

“Christ,” Bond breathed. “Come over here, you little devil, just get on my cock already, you know you’re hungry for it.”

Q fixed him with a gimlet eye. “Say ‘please,’” he said. 

Bond growled. “ _Please_ , Q, let me make your bloody kinky life by fucking you in the cockpit of a plane going seven hundred miles per hour.” 

Q laughed and pulled his fingers out. “Good enough,” he said. There was another awkward moment as he shuffled over, glancing between Bond and the instrument panel. Apparently the instrument panel view was better, because Q hitched himself over Bond’s lap so his back was to Bond’s chest, facing away from him. His legs spread obscenely around Bond’s thighs, quivering with the stretch, and his arse rubbed temptingly against Bond’s cock. 

“Gorgeous little beast,” Bond said, holding his cock in one hand and tugging Q down by the shoulder with the other, guiding Q onto him. 

Q went willingly, panting into the stretch, little noises breaking out of his throat with each inch that Bond fucked into the clenching heat of him. 

“That’s it, there we go,” Bond said, soothing and a bit of a bastard as Q fully seated himself. 

Q squeezed around him and bared his teeth, trying to twist, only for Bond to wrap his feet around Q’s ankles, pinning him. 

“ _Oh_ ,” Q said, and from the deep, shuddering breath he took, he quite liked Bond trapping him, really. 

“Hands on the yoke, Q,” Bond instructed. 

Q shot him a panicked look. 

“It’s on autopilot,” Bond said, genuinely reassuring this time. “You won’t mess anything up. We’ll be okay.”

Hesitantly, Q gripped the two sides of the yoke beneath Bond’s hands. “It’s like a video game controller,” he said. 

Bond snorted. “Of course it is. Now, keep hold of that. But move, too.” He poked Q in the arse. 

“Or I could just sit here,” Q said, shifting on his lap. “My, look at those blue skies, what a lovely vie---fuck!” He cried out as Bond gripped his thighs, lifted him, and dropped him back down onto his cock. “Do that again.” 

Instead Bond pinched one of his nipples, pulling up until Q scrambled up. 

“Oh god, oh god, fuck, that’s good---” Q clenched around his cockhead, sending sparks down Bond’s spine. 

Bond tugged down on Q’s nipple until Q dropped down again, and he thrust his hips to meet Q halfway. “That’s it, Q. Keep going.”

“ _You_ keep going, you fuck, and get the other side, why don’t you,” Q babbled, yanking Bond’s other hand onto his free nipple before gripping onto the yoke again. 

Bond took a moment to bite into Q’s neck, partly because it was there and tempting, mostly to show Q that he was playing with Q’s nipples because he wanted to and not because Q told him to. 

Delightfully, Q keened and shuddered as Bond’s teeth scraped against his nape. 

“Oh?” Bond asked. 

“ _Oh_ , that’s, that’s very nice,” Q said faintly, arching his neck up for more. 

Bond politely bit him again, and pinched his nipples like he’d asked. Then, because it was fun to be difficult, he curled his hands in a loose grip around Q’s cock, making him choose between rutting into Bond’s hands or hitching back against Bond’s mouth. 

Q rocked first one way and then the other, panting, his hands still clenched white-knuckled around the yoke. Gradually, his hips started shifting higher, his feet tensing against Bond’s for leverage. He fucked himself in little jerks on Bond’s cock, bouncing in desperate movements that made Bond’s cock twitch inside him. 

“That’s so fucking good, Q,” Bond murmured against his neck. He pressed a gentle kiss against Q’s nape at the same time as he moved his hands from Q’s cock to Q’s nipples, pinching cruelly again. 

Q’s cock jerked against his stomach, precome seeping onto his belly, and he whined as he rutted into the air. “ _Bond_.” His voice cracked. His body was slick with sweat and with every movement he was rubbing it into Bond’s suit. 

Bond dragged him up again, and down again, and they finally got into the rhythm of it, curving into and against each other, just the right friction and slickness between them. 

“Yes, yes, yes,” Q chanted, his thighs pistoning him up and down onto Bond’s cock. “Please, just---” 

“God, yes, put your back into it,” Bond grunted, thrusting up. The heat in him was growing and his thighs were shaking, his balls tightening. He curled a hand around Q’s cock, twisted his wrist the way he liked to do to himself. “Come for me, Q, I want to see you, beautiful thing, come on---” Inspiration struck. “Come all over this fucking plane, get it dirty for me, show me how filthy and brilliant you are are---” 

Q cried out, shuddering, and hot spurts of come flooded out of his cock and onto the yoke and the instrument panels, which was going to be a bitch to clean up but was also the hottest fucking thing Bond had ever seen. 

The sight drove Bond over the edge and he came thrusting into Q’s shaking, clenching hole. 

Q slumped back against him, finally letting go of the yoke as he got his breath back. “I’m never going on a field mission again,” he said eventually. “There’s no way to top this.” 

“I’ll admit this is a first for me too,” Bond said, stroking the crease of Q’s thigh thoughtfully. “And it certainly gives a new meaning to the word ‘cockpit.’” 

Q looked back at Bond, looked at the come on the instrument panels, looked back at Bond, and cracked up. 

Bond smiled as Q laughed, rather pleased with himself. Creating the circumstances for laughter didn’t come as naturally to him as creating the circumstances for orgasm did. It was nice to be able to do both. And although neither of them would be good for another round very soon, perhaps he could create some less earthy happiness in the meantime. 

“Do you want to learn how to fly it?” Bond asked. 

Q stopped against him. “What?” 

“You’ve done some simulators, haven’t you?” Bond asked. There was no way someone with as much of a fly kink as Q hadn’t done. “Why not try the real thing while we’re up here? 

“Oh,” Q breathed. “That would be fantastic. I’ve always wanted to, just never found the time, you know. A quartermaster’s work is never done, and all that.” He started to bounce, this time less with sexual energy and more with unbridled excitement. 

Bond hissed at all the movement around his now-sensitive cock. “Perhaps in the co-pilot’s chair,” he hinted. 

“Ah! Of course.” Q extricated himself with a wince of his own as Bond’s cock left him, and he groaned and stretched his thighs as much as he was able before sitting back down in the co-pilot’s seat. He fetched some antiseptic wipes from the first aid kit and passed a few to Bond before wiping himself down as much as he could. 

Bond gave his cock a cursory scrub, tucked himself back into his trousers, and reluctantly cleaned Q’s mess off of the plane. At least he wasn’t the only one who looked a little wistful about it. 

“All right,” he said when Q had donned his pants and cardigan again. He gave Q a rundown on all the controls and instruments, relieved when Q nodded like everything was familiar. “I’m going to take the autopilot off now. To start, see you if you can keep us going just the way we are, the same speed and altitude. Ready?” 

Q nodded, his hands on the yoke, his feet against the rudder pedals, his brow furrowed with determination. 

Bond flicked the autopilot switch off. 

Q immediately swooped them, dipping the nose of the plane down. 

Bond’s stomach clenched and floated up into his throat, curses spilling out of him. He was reaching for the controls when Q laughed and dragged on the yoke, jerkily righting them. 

It had only been a few seconds, but Bond’s pulse still hammered at his throat. 

“You deserved that,” Q said, glancing sidelong at Bond with a smug little smile. 

Bond considered the number of times he’d done worse after asking Q to trust him. “Probably,” he admitted. “Want to learn how to do that with a little more control?” 

He was gratified by the widening of Q’s eyes. Yes, he tended to fuck people and they liked it, and that had certainly been the metaphorical (and now literal) pattern with Q. But he wasn’t a one-trick pony, and Q, brilliant and loyal as he was, was worth more than a good fucking. He was worth as much patience and affection as an old dog like him could muster. It might not be much, but he could put a smile on Q’s face for a little while. 

As he watched Q soar through the sky, a little clumsy and a lot delighted, Bond started smiling too. “When do you want your second lesson?” he found himself asking. 

Q faltered. His startled hands twitched the plane but quickly righted them again. “Bond? You know it’s not...” 

Not feasible. Took up too much time. Bond knew. “One lesson at a time,” he said anyway. “If it gets to be too much, we can stop. Anyway, I don’t expect anything else if you don’t want; I just expect you to fly.” 

Q’s face twisted with longing as he stared at the instruments in front of him. “One lesson at a time,” he echoed finally, shoulders slumping. “Okay. Thank you.” 

Bond shrugged. At the very least he’d have an interesting day during the post-mission lull at work. And if they got lucky, if things worked out, if they eventually had several interesting days, perhaps interspersed throughout several months or even years… Well, it wouldn’t be bad at all to have a true co-pilot. Q had his back on comms and on missions; Bond was willing to shoot for the sky, too. One flight at a time. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! <3 Constructive criticism is welcome.


End file.
